


Family Language

by magikfanfic



Series: Love Made Manifest [9]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Best space dads, Cassian is mentioned but not present, Fluff, M/M, Post-Rogue One, probably not canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 00:46:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikfanfic/pseuds/magikfanfic
Summary: The sound that he focuses on, the one that is most prevalent in the tiny, shaky little ship that Cassian found for them and that Bodhi and Jyn have been working on repairing, is Bodhi, singing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some forward movement here. Not off the main ship yet but working towards it. I don't really have a timeline for how long things take and how this compares to what's happening during the original trilogy because it just sort of exists somewhere out there *waves to the side* and not in here. Because this is the fic where I let the space dads be happy.

There are many noises in the ship from the rattling of something in the engine that probably shouldn’t be there to an odd high pitched whistling that Baze is concerned about calling attention to because he’s not sure he wants to know whether or not it means that their death is imminent, their next death, another death. Death, it seems, gets in line for them, waits at every possible moment to see whether or not it can have them this time. It must feel like an unrequited lover by now as he or Chrirut keep kicking the door in its face and then running the other direction instead of answering or just being pulled back, little by little, piece by piece put together again when it probably thought it had finally won on Scarif.

For a moment his heart flutters in a quiet sort of hope that, perhaps, it will decide to write them off for quite some time now, tired of being rejected it will just wait until they are ready, until they are old and even more cantankerous before it leads them away into the Force once and for all. But together. Always together. Because Baze had a scant handful of moments without Chirrut in the universe, thinking that Chirrut had fled before him, and he cannot repeat it. Chirrut, he thinks, would be able to survive without him, for a time, if it was necessary because he is stronger and more resolute, though he would probably be reaching out to him in the Force constantly, babbling awkwardly without anyone at hand to chatter at. So that it is how it will be then, either together or him first because if Chirrut pulls a stunt like that again Baze’s heart will break the rest of him apart utterly and there will be no telling what happens to those in the wake of his sadness.

The sound that he focuses on, the one that is most prevalent in the tiny, shaky little ship that Cassian found for them and that Bodhi and Jyn have been working on repairing, is Bodhi, singing. The words are of Jedha but are not Jedhan, they belong to one of the other language families that existed on the moon, carried across the galaxy and tended by their speakers, nurtured alongside Jedhan itself. The temple taught them to read and speak a handful of the most common intergalactic languages, but it never imparted a personal one, an historical one other than Jedhan itself. Baze wonders whether he had one, once, before the temple, wonders what it would have sounded like, what the weight of it would have been on his tongue. Wonders which of the different dialects of Jedha would have been for his family, who he never knew, remembers only snatches of a woman with dark eyes and a man whose laugh was as deep as his own, and sometimes he thinks that he only dreamed those moments, the ones that he recollects occasionally when things are very quiet, when his mind is very still. 

He thinks, cool and dark like normal, and Chirrut squeezes his hand, which makes him smile because, no, he does not have a family language, but there is the one he and Chirrut came up with, so many years ago now that it feels like another lifetime, the touch language, a whole world of words and meanings comprised into gestures, pressure, and the play of fingers. It is more than enough to sustain him. Even if all their other words were stripped away tomorrow, Jedhan, Basic, the smattering of others that have fallen into disuse over the years, they would still have that, their own family language, born and raised in their hands.

Still, though, he finds that he quite likes sitting there, listening to Bodhi sing something small and sweet in words that he cannot parse but thinks he knows the meaning behind anyway because of how the song itself goes, and because he can only think of certain occasions that would have called for a song like that. Children, he thinks. Children being put to sleep, rocked, cradled, warm and soft and protected, and a voice singing to them to chase all the monsters out of the corners of the room, the ones that linger in the darkness and wait. It makes the unfurling petals of his heart bend toward it, as if reaching for the sun, and he wonders, not for the first time and probably not for the last, what life might have been like on Jedha if things had been different, if there had been no Empire, no war, no Jedi slaughtered worlds away and the echo of their death thrust across the galaxy to hurt them, no Sith, no Death Star. Just. 

What if there had just been life spinning itself out the way that it always had in the past, the way that he thought it would when he was young and green and full of all the hope in the world? When he thought that everything was within his reach and that it would be good even if it might not be easy. Easy had never really mattered much to Baze, but he had considered that contentment might be nice. And a simple life. With Chirrut. With his brother and sister guardians. With the initiates, children he could have looked at as his own, brought up under his care, watched as they grew into strong, happy beings. Nobody so broken, nobody so shattered as these not children he has circled his great arms about. It does not make them any less, but it bothers him because he isn’t sure he can help heal what has been damaged. He can be what they need him to be in the here and now, but he cannot reach back through the years and fix everything that has gone wrong. Baze Malbus has been a lot of things during his life, but he never managed father. Until now, a sort of father if they will have him. And he worries that he is not quite good enough for it, but it hasn’t stopped him from trying. 

“Drifting,” Chirrut chides with a tap of his fingers against his hand, pulling Baze back from where his thoughts have wandered. “We’re supposed to be paying attention so that we can give notes.”

“Notes?” Baze’s laugh is a low rumble. “You just wanted to get away from the ship for a bit. What notes will you provide? That the seats are uncomfortable and you would prefer a different color scheme. It’s mostly gray, by the way, since we’ve not already covered that. Metal gray more than a sky about to rain gray.”

The cane, begrudgingly fetched from the corner of their quarters that it had occupied since Chirrut tossed it there the day it was given to him, whaps soundly across his ankles and sends Baze to hissing through his teeth. Perhaps acquiring new armor would not be such a bad idea, after all, if only to protect himself from his husband. “Oh. Was that you? I’m sorry. I must have missed that fact the same way in which I neglected to notice the color scheme.”

This is the man that Baze Malbus has loved for as long as he has known how to love, and yet things like this are still endearing. And frustrating in that mild way that tickles at the back of his mind, a sigh that belies no real aggravation, no wish for him to change because Baze loves steady and constant, a routine, knowing what will happen when. It was one of the reasons that temple life suited him so well and why life without it, life in the shadow of the Empire, did not. All the day to day activities, the plan, was eradicated, vaporized before his eyes. Suddenly he found that he had no idea what each day would bring, and that was jarring to him. And Chirrut is many things. A force of nature, unpredictable, reckless, yes, he is many things that should make Baze anxious and twitchy, but while his antics themselves are erratic, the fact is that they are expected. He may not know what Chirrut will do, but he is certain to do something, and that is calming. Also Chirrut’s faith in him, Chirrut’s love for him has never faltered either. A contradiction, he supposes, that the thing he loves most in the universe is a man who he can never completely predict but is relentlessly solid despite all of that.

So despite his stinging ankles, which will stop smarting in probably thirty more seconds because Chirrut knows exactly what he is doing always, Baze reaches over to brush his fingers gently across his husband’s cheek. “You chastise me but what notes have you made?”

Chirrut clicks his tongue as though reprimanding him for the casual touch in public yet does not move away, shifts closer, turning so that he is almost facing him, the hand not holding his cane resting on Baze’s knee, fingers rubbing at the cloth as though he is still not completely used to the difference between this and the flightsuit. Some routines they used to hold were for Chirrut’s comfort, though Baze seldom admits it aloud. “Bodhi sings well.” And his eyebrows go up along with the sides of his mouth, quirking into an expression that just dares him to argue the fact.

As usual, Chirrut is not wrong, and Baze is trapped now because admitting things like this to his husband can leave him smugly grinning for hours. Not to mention walking around the Rebel ship, triumphant, declaring to anyone who will listen how he told Baze so while people who have only ever seen him in passing before look at him in a mix of confusion and panic because these are the heroes of Rogue One so they cannot be rude, but at the same time they just want to flee from the strange men wandering the halls. It is a performance that Baze does not enjoy because he inevitably has to follow along to ensure that Chirrut makes his way back to their room instead of just chasing twitches of the Force around to invade the rooms of anyone with any sensitivity at all and lecturing them about it and inviting them to their morning training and meditation sessions. Baze does not mind the idea of more company, if anything it would be good for them both to get more experience in wrangling people other than Bodhi, and Jyn is still unrelenting even in the face of his very sound arguments that it would be good for her leg, which pains her more than it should, but Chirrut keeps strange hours and has a sense of making himself right at home anywhere he goes, sitting on tables or clothing or people, and talking, always talking, and so many of the Rebels are so young and so in awe of them that they do not dare interpret him, allowing Chirrut to potentially corner them for hours without Baze there to keep him in check and lead him back. Chirrut’s faith might have faltered, wandered, but it has come round, flared as bright as ever, and this soothes them both as well.

Fortunately Baze is saved from having to answer, to try and find something that is a suitable answer, as they feel the ship shift, wheeling back to return, and the song that they can hear changes. It is still not a language that Baze recognizes, but he knows the song. Everyone who grew up on Jedha knows that song, and Chirrut’s grin brightens. Baze settles his hands in his lap, one of them tracing the back of Chirrut’s own as he mouths the words to the song. 

“You know this one,” Chirrut says, the fingers tightening around his knee. “Sing with me.” He does not wait for an answer before he starts singing, slightly quieter than his speaking voice, and Baze just lounges in the words, in the song for a moment. The talk of rains and wind and the temple. A song that is about Jedha and of Jedha. Chirrut’s voice is passable but not lovely on its own, mostly made beautiful because of the fact that it is Chirrut’s and everything Chirrut does is loved by Baze. 

Bodhi’s voice, which continues on in his family language, is a voice for singing, Baze thinks, and wonders again what the young man could have managed to be had the Empire not come, had he not decided that his way out of the poverty on Jedha was to fly for them, become embroiled in their plots and their insidiousness. He cannot blame Bodhi for this choice, of course, knows how hard life in NiJedha had been and how the prospect of jobs, credits--any job, any way to get credits, no questions asked--could blind a person to all else. He had lived like that himself, of course, briefly, writing more names in blood than Bodhi probably ever saw as a cargo pilot.

Chirrut squeezes his knee again, insistently, and it is a stronger request this time, harder to turn down, and he is not in the habit of denying his husband anyway. Baze lifts Chirrut’s hand to press against his chest, holding it there with his own hand as he begins to sing, coming in on the verse about the kyber and how it made their moon glitter and shine His voice is a somber thing, low and soft, and he was never one who liked to sing in the temple because it made people look at him. It is, in his opinion, not a good voice, but perhaps it is soothing or startlingly or something. It draws attention, and Baze has never been a man who desired that from anyone but Chirrut. 

Deep, Chirrut liked to say when they were younger, when he would pester Baze into finally joining in on the more sing-song chants instead of just mouthing them the way that he used to. I can feel your soul, Chirrut would say, eyes twinkling, and Baze would be caught off guard, stop singing because his throat had closed up, and his face was so hot it felt like the skin was burning off. After that Chirrut stopped complimenting him so much, just started placing a hand on his back or his chest to feel when next he managed to goad him into singing. As the years passed, it became a very rare thing as there was, progressively, less to sing about.

Now Chirrut has stopped singing, and Baze watches him, the smile on his face, genuine and content, his eyes closed as though he needs to put all of his concentration into listening and feeling the vibrations of Baze’s voice as he sings this children’s song in the middle of a small, beat up ship on a test flight. This entire situation would have sounded ludicrous if someone had mentioned it to him a year ago, even months ago. Baze would have laughed in the speaker’s face and turned around to stomp off before they could spin more tall tales of a life too soft to hope for then. Now he is not sure he could imagine anything other than this and what will come after this, hoping that the next steps will be just as bright, just as lovely.

The song closes mere moments before Bodhi docks in the hangar, but Baze keeps his hand over Chirrut’s, both of them pressed to his chest even though he is no longer singing. “You stopped,” he accuses, thumb moving across the back of Chirrut’s hand, and Chirrut’s grin widens just a beat. It always amazes him how his husband’s smile can expand to hold the entire galaxy, as bright as any star in the sky, as bright as the Force. 

“Something lovely distracted me. I wanted to give it all of my attention. Sometimes I forget how fragile it can be.” He pats his hand against Baze’s chest. 

“Old fool,” Baze mutters affectionately, tapping out a quick acknowledgement of love onto the back of Chirrut’s hand as his husband folds that hand atop the other on his cane.

The sounds from the cockpit have changed from Bodhi’s family language to his concise and clear Basic, though Baze cannot catch the words even when he strains. They have found, during their time together, that Bodhi, much like himself, speaks more confidently in Jedhan than Basic. With Baze this is because of the way his accent stains the words. He has always been better at reading languages, not spending nearly enough time practicing speaking them to become comfortable even after all these years.

Chirrut used to tease him about it, especially in the months after he had returned following his self-imposed exodus from Jedha, that it was a wonder he had managed to get any jobs at all considering his stubborn silence. And Baze would just huff and explain that he could read the orders, which was more than some of the mercenaries had going for them. Most of the time all they wanted was to know that he could understand, could get the thing done, they didn’t particularly care whether or not he was a witty conversationalist. “They would have bored you, Chirrut, every single one. Most of them talked about food and sand. Lots of mercenaries seem to hate sand.” And Chirrut would grin and then launch into grand lectures about how the love of food was the starting point of a good foundation for understanding the Force while Baze let his eyes slip shut, napping with the warm sounds of his husband’s voice surrounding him. They had not been perfect days, far from it, but they’d possessed some redeeming qualities.

Bodhi’s Basic is a soft thing, well formed, groomed almost, but shaky for reasons that Baze can only guess at because there are a lot of things that Bodhi does not like to talk about. Jedha is always a favorite topic. The Force seems to be something that he is more tolerant of than passionate about, which is fine, and Baze understands that view. Sometimes the fiercest believers are the most hard won, but sometimes the doubting believers are the best because they will question and they will look for answers and they will put thought into what they believe. There is no wrong way to believe, he remembers the masters telling them when they were little. (Except maybe not to believe in anything at all, he thinks for a moment before pushing it away because this is not the time to linger on those questions. Later he is sure that Chirrut would be more than thrilled to get into another hours long discussion about the finer points of faith in much the same way that they would when they were young.)

No, he thinks that Bodhi’s hesitancy comes from something else altogether. Bodhi is stronger than the Rebels give him credit for being. Baze and Chirrut see that on a daily basis. Going against what he had known, the people who had given him a job, who had given him a livelihood, in order to fulfill a promise to a friend, in order to make the universe safer, is not a decision that a soft, weak person would have made. No, a soft, weak person would have ducked under the weight of that responsibility. A soft, weak person would have broken utterly under whatever Saw did to Bodhi. And they certainly would not have risked themselves for a suicide mission with people they had only just met. Bodhi is noble in the heart of himself, strong without killing his own gentleness, which is something that Baze can appreciate. But he thinks that Basic probably reminds Bodhi of being an Imperial pilot, of the months and years spent in their service, all the potential pain that he wrought on the universe by allowing himself to be a cog in their machine, and that is what he shrinks from, those memories, that is why his voice always goes quieter in Basic, that is why he sometimes stammers. 

The voice cuts out and now there are just the noises of the ship as everything ticks and cools off around them. It is an old ship, but it seems to be fairly well built despite all of that, and the work that Bodhi and Jyn have poured into it appears to be paying off. At least it has not imploded and killed the lot of them on any of the test flights that they have taken it on, which is something, and much better than he could probably manage with a ship. A moment later, the hatch is opening, accompanied by Jyn’s telltale footfalls, stomping as though she is a petulant child who never manages to get what she wants, making herself louder and larger than she is in order to intimidate whatever might come her way. Jyn is only quiet when she needs to be, the rest of the time she is much larger than her physical presence.

Chirrut’s attention immediately turns toward the approaching kyber crystal. “Jyn, hullo,” he calls out companionably, switching to his warm Basic. “Will you accompany us next time?” He stands, using the cane to check the area. 

Baze watches him for a moment before standing himself without so much as a complaining sigh or any twinging parts of his body. Getting out from under the heavy gun and all of its various bits and bobs, picking up the training and the meditation again, all of it has been good for him, for his body. Chirrut has commented on it as well when they are alone, hands lingering in the dark, and Baze will flush and can feel Chirrut’s raised eyebrows, teasing, ridiculous and young forever because the man is apparently never going to grow up completely if he can help it, which is fine with Baze, though he would never admit it aloud, because he fell in love with that ludicrous, vulgar youngster version of his husband anyway. And it can be charming, sometimes, when it is not patently embarrassing. Baze keeps near Chirrut’s elbow in case he decides, once again, that the cane is a nuisance and he would rather have Baze’s arm, but not so close as to crowd him. Hands folded behind his back, he nods at Jyn as she stops in front of them, eyes locked on the datapad in her hand.

Her eyes flick up briefly to look at them, that almost smile on her face, before she goes back to what she is working on. “Can’t.” Her words as clipped and quick as always, like blows Chirrut would land on the temple training dummies. “After I finish going over these readings with Bodhi, Cassian needs help with Kay.”

Neither of them have spoken to Jyn or Cassian about the aftereffects of their discussion with the man because even Chirrut is not quite that much of a meddler, but it has been hard to miss the changes in attitude that have occurred. Jyn no longer looks ready to throw her utensils, tray and a punch at Cassian’s face when he finds them in the mess, and Cassian no longer looks ready to drop if a hard gust of wind were to blow. He has also taken to spending time with all of them more even if it is not a regular thing simply because of the demands foisted on him by the Rebellion. Sometimes he will join them for a meal, actually sitting and eating, and if that is because Baze glared at him until he took a bite the first time or not, he cannot say for sure. Both Bodhi and Jyn speak of the time that Cassian spends helping them going over schematics for the ship as well as exchanging suggestions about the best way to get K2 up and running. Several days ago, Jyn spent two hours in their quarters while Chirrut meditated and Baze struggled to keep up, detailing every small and sundry detail that was going on when it came to getting Kay back up and going in a new body. The big issue, she had indicated, was fabricating a body that Cassian was certain Kay would be happy with. Most of the rest of the conversation was over Baze’s head, but he had been happy to sit there, nodding and smiling while she talked, though he might have fussed at Chirrut for sinking so deep into the Force that he could not help with the conversation after she left. Chirrut, the nuisance, had only offered his laughter rather than an apology.

Once, for a few moments, Cassian even dropped by while he and Chirrut were meditating, though he looked painfully uncomfortable sitting on the edge of a chair while they were in lotus position on the floor, Chirrut shirtless, such that the great patchwork collection of scars across his chest and arms was in full view, prattling on about the Force and their temple and the merits of meditation even if one did not want to become a believer while gesticulating wildly because he was just so happy Cassian was taking an interest. It had been such a touching scene that Baze didn’t have the heart to reign Chirrut in and, as a result, might have allowed Cassian to be too overwhelmed to ever consider coming back. 

“Things are going well with Kay?” Baze asks, reminding himself not to refer to the droid as, well, a droid, which he had done shortly after Bodhi indicated he was helping with it as well, and the look that Bodhi had turned on him was haunting and sad. Since then he has been making an effort to use either Kay or K2 in conversation. It has been getting easier. He is not the only one who has lessons to impart it seems, and this back and forth method of learning is one of the things that he also misses about home, wants to make sure to incorporate into their temple when--no ifs here only when--they have it up and going. Everyone can teach you something, the masters used to say, so make sure not to shut your heart, your ears, your eyes, your mind to any of it. Be open. Be the ocean, be the wind, be the sand, be the Force. Take in everything around you. 

There were so many years when Baze had closed himself off to everything, so many years spent in virtual isolation, in a hole life, tucked down deep and dark into a ball, body functioning, mind and heart furiously trying not to do anything at all other than just keep the body moving. He had learned so little during those years, wasted so much time. There were so many lessons available to him in every inch of the world that existed, from every person whose life his paht crossed, all of it wasted, all of it gone, and he is not going to do that again, be that again. 

Jyn’s eyes flick up, and she nods first and then answers verbally. It’s a habit she has gotten into, getting used to making sure to use her words when near Chirrut. Jyn sparks fire across the Force thanks to the kyber crystal around her neck but sometimes its glow overwhelms her own, and sometimes it speaks of things that she does not. Rather than let Chirrut assume what he wants to, she makes sure to answer them. She even tucks the datapad into her back pocket. “Yeah. I think we’re almost there actually. Just a few more adjustments to make. The body type won’t be quite the same as we don’t have access to the right parts, but it should be similar enough that he won’t complain that much.” She shrugs. “He’ll complain but. Less. Maybe. I don’t know. Cassian promises that he’ll be grateful, but I won’t believe that until I hear it.”

There is the sound of the cockpit door sliding shut and then soft footsteps that mark Bodhi’s approach. Baze watches as Chirrut instinctively tips his head toward the sound. Bodhi always walks silently, as though skittering around the edges of a room full of sleeping people, trying to wake none of them. When he enters rooms it is always shyly, as though he is somewhat concerned about interrupting something. The warm friendship that has bloomed between him and Jyn is somewhat surprising, but good because they make a nice balance, Bodhi softening edges off Jyn and she supporting him with a will of fire. And they both understand the almost endless stream of technical jargon that most of the Rebels seem to hold as the a family language of sorts. 

“Bodhi, your singing is excellent,” Chirrut says by way of a greeting.

Baze clicks his tongue at his husband, using his own form of chiding against him, even as he watches Bodhi’s shy smile, the way his eyes drop to the floor for a moment, stilling his approach, before he joins them.

“Thanks. I didn’t actually know you guys could hear that back here. Do you,” he stops, searching for his words again. “Did you understand it?”

“No, not the first one. Yours is not a language that the Temple of the Whills taught,” Chirrut admits. “Everyone knows the Lullaby of Jedha, though. I got Baze to sing along with you. In Jedhan obviously.”

Jyn’s face is a mixture of mirth and confusion. “The Lullaby of Jedha? I’ve clearly missed out on something. When are you guys singing for me?”

Baze sets his teeth together, trying not to grind them or glare at Chirrut too much. Chirrut who is smiling in his dazzling way as though this is the most amusing thing that has happened this year. Baze has a headache. “There was a rattling I heard that might have been in the engine. And a whistling, but I do not know where it came from.” The best thing to do, clearly, is ignore all the talk of singing and hope it goes away.

Bodhi seems pained for a moment, eyes tracking their faces before he shrugs, looking fully at Jyn. “I couldn’t hear Baze either so I can’t tell you what you missed there, but I can sing it in Jedhan for you later if you want. We can make it a lesson.”

“Jyn,” Chirrut’s smile has tracked back to be aimed roughly at Jyn, the crystal assisting him in locating the best point as always. “I did not know you were learning Jedhan. Baze and I could teach you as well.” Baze thinks that Chirrut looks intensely proud about this information.

The look that Jyn shoots Bodhi makes him frown and put his hands in the air in a gesture that is clearly an apology, and Baze has to press his lips together not to laugh at that. There is clearly the sense that Jyn did not want them to know about this, though Baze was aware of it on a small level from the small bits and pieces she has tested on him during their conversations over the months. “I just thought,” she seems young now, much younger than when she walked into the ship. She almost seems flustered, a child handing something to an adult, hoping they will like it but fearful that they won’t. “You all speak in Jedhan all the time, and I don’t know what’s happening. That’s all.” Her voice is petulant now but high, as though afraid of being caught out. 

“Baze, I’ll check on those noises that you heard. I bet something is loose.” She turns to head toward the door, and Baze thinks it might be because she doesn’t want any of them to see the way that the emotions play across her face as much as because she doesn’t want them picking up on anything that might twist across the Force, magnified by the crystal around her neck.

“Jyn,” Chirrut’s voice is as strong and solid as ever, and gentle through and through. “Thank you.” He doesn’t say for what, doesn’t have to because it’s there in the way her shoulders straighten with pride. 

Bodhi still looks a little sheepish and apologetic, toying with his goggles, and Baze settles a hand on his shoulder to calm him. “Chirrut is right. Your singing is good.” Then, because Jyn lingers at the bottom of the walkway, “Jyn,” and then he says something in Jedhan that makes Chirrut reach a hand back to catch at his shirt. “That’s little sister,” he repeats in Basic, hears Jyn muttering the words to herself over and over as she disappears into the bay, trying to commit them to memory.

Then he shifts his attention back to Bodhi, falling back into the cadences of Jedhan now because it is easier and warmer on his tongue. “Does. Does anyone else here speak your family language?”

Their pilot shrugs, his eyes wide when his gaze flicks up to Baze and Chirrut. Of the three of them, Bodhi is the best at looking at Chirrut as though he is not blind, as though there is nothing odd about his sightless eyes at all. “I don’t think so, but I haven’t asked a lot of them either.”

Baze thinks it would be a pity for another language to disappear from the skies. He doesn’t know how many were lost when NiJedha was lost. It might not have been any. For all he knows there are people on planets that he will never see who speak the language Bodhi speaks, the one his own family spoke, a language which he never learned and never will now. For all Baze knows, they are all out there, heavy or fast or light or sweet or harsh on tongues across the universe, singing and loving and speaking all day and all night. They are probably stored on disks and datapads and certainly the droids have them. But there is still that nagging little voice in the back of his mind that what if they’re not, what if they have been exploded and blown to dust and no one will ever hear them again. It makes his great heart clench, and the hand that Chirrut has in his shirt clings tighter in silent comfort. 

You are the Guardian of the Whills, the masters said, and that does not just mean the temple or the kyber or Jedha itself. It means that you protect, you guard life and the mechanisms of life, the culture of life. 

Baze will not watch more things die out if he can help it. “Will you teach me?”

Bodhi’s eyes, always so big in his head, always so wide as though gathering all the light in the universe, all the sights because he is worried they might just stop existing one day, get even bigger and then get wet. His throat works convulsively like he is trying to swallow something down, but when he goes to speak nothing comes out. So instead he just nods, and the motion is so quick that it is almost violent.

Chirrut’s face, so often carefully crafted, wears the concerned look he gets when something is so large, so dear, that he worries about it getting out of control, and Baze feels like this is all probably going to result in another talk, more almost warnings pressed into the air like kisses pressed to skin, but he can’t. He cannot hold himself away from these not children. He cannot. It is against everything in him, everything he wants to be, so what he does, is catch Chirrut’s hand, squeezing it and sends love and reassurance through the Force, that he knows, he knows, of course he knows, but he also knows that they all need this more. It is worth any modicum of pain to him to find ways to ease their pain. 

And Chirrut knows this, of course, but Chirrut has always been his greatest protector, and it would be out of character if his husband was not trying to guard his poor, aching, stray collecting heart.

“We should let Bodhi help Jyn with the ship,” Chirrut says quietly, and Baze nods. 

When he starts to take the hand from Bodhi’s shoulder, Bodhi catches it in his and says something in the language he was singing in, which makes Baze quirk his eyebrows until the word is repeated, in Jedhan. “Thank you.”

Baze smiles and repeats the word in the new tongue, a tongue the seems even more difficult than Basic, even harder for him to wrap his mouth around. But then Chirrut says it, and it is perfect. 

“You’ll teach us both,” Chirrut insists, and it more than just being there for Baze. It is being there for Bodhi, too.

Bodhi says thank you again in the new language, his family language, and then beams when Baze pats him lightly on the cheek, a common Jedhan gesture among families, before following Chirrut down the walkway. Once they are in the hanger, Baze is the one who has to lead them as it proves, just as it always does, to be too big, too metal, too foreign, and too full of people for Chirrut to navigate on his own.

“We talked about you being careful with my heart,” Chirrut scolds once they are in the hallway walking toward their quarters, where it is quieter, easier to talk among themselves. Chirrut is smiling, but his tone and the set of his brow is wary, concerned. 

“I’m sorry, love. It wants so much.”

His husband’s fingers twined through his own tighten, passing meaning with the pressure. “If you sing to me, maybe I’ll forgive you for spoiling it.”

It should not be this easy, Baze thinks, to fall into hope like they have done. It should not feel like a warm bed or strong hands. It would make more sense for it to be hard, for him to have to bleed and fight. Baze never thought hope would look like this, never thought life would look like this for him. Not after everything burned. He never dared to dream this is what it could be. 

“Anything you want, Chirrut. Anything at all.”


End file.
